Thursday, April 30, 2009

Did you find a poem to put in your pocket? What is it? What does it mean to you?

Here's mine. I've shared it before, but it's worth sharing again. It reminds me to be brave and take risks.

Small Frog Killed on the Highway

Still,I would leap tooInto the light,If I had the chance.It is everything, the wet green stalk of the fieldOn the other side of the road.They crouch there, too, faltering in terrorAnd take strange wing. ManyOf the dead never moved, but manyOf the dead are alive forever in the split secondAuto headlights more suddenThan their drivers know.The drivers burrow backward into dank poolsWhere nothing begetsNothing.

Across the road, tadpoles are dancingOnt he quarter thumbnailOf the moon. They can't see,Not yet.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Tonight I lingered over your name,the delicate assembly of vowelsa voice inside my head.You were sleeping when I arrived.I stood by your bedand watched the sheets rise gently.I knew what slant of lightwould make you turn over.It was then I feltthe highways slide out of my hands.I remembered the old menin the west side café,dealing dominoes like magical charms.It was then I knew,like a woman looking backward,I could not leave you,or find anyone I loved more.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

The day we buried you in the parkI couldn’t say no. Your wife had a plan,revealed on the phone with the hush of conspiracy;there are laws in this city against the intermentof human remains in public spaces.

This was the Poets’ Park, your visionfloating like the black butterflies of cindersover the house in ruins across the street.You and Juan saw the stone steps flowing downinto the circle where the poets would stand and sing one day.You and Juan saw the poets showering the air with wordsand the trees drinking words like water.You nailed up the sign and spread your arms to greet usat the ceremony. This could not be explainedto the clerk who stamps the licensesfor the burial of the dead.

Juan began to cry when he saw your ashesin the wheelbarrow. I shook him by the shoulder;the neighbor who watches the park from her windowwas eyeing us. I handed him the shovel.We had to clamp our jaws like mobstersstoically soiling their hands with the grit of a rival thug.Your wife poured a bag of plant food over your ashesin case the neighbor peeked too long through the hedgesor the cops rolled their cruiser to a stop, boredafter years of shoving drunks into the back seat.We stirred the ashes with our hands till they turned white at the wrist,and what I’d heard was true: there is bone that will not burn,bodies that refuse to become dust, the stubborn shards of a man.Ask any criminal who labors to bury the evidence.

We weren’t criminals. We dug the hole in the wrong place,ripped out the roots, grunted with every shovel full of rocks.We made the little grave too big, then tossed away the dirt,forgetting that we’d need to fill the hole once we dumped you in it.When I tipped the wheelbarrow, your ashes landed with a puff,drifting in the briefest of clouds over the grass, and Juandropped to his knees, crying again, giving us away.The neighbor poked her head from the windowlike a chicken suspicious of the world beyond the coop.

An hour after we began, I wore a mask of ash and sweat, black shoes white,like the last man in the village to hear the warning of volcano,or a miner on the first day back at work after the strike is lost,or a believer smeared with his ancestors about to wash in the great river.A woman who recognized my face stopped me as I crossed the street.Did you just bury something in the park? she asked.Why would I do a thing like that, I said.

The day we buried you in the park, I drove homewith three scoops of your ashes in a coffee can:Chock Full o’Nuts, the Heavenly Coffee, their sloganemblazoned in a cloud across the New York skyline.At your desk there was bad coffee and good poetry,but no heaven, so I will look for you under my bootsoles,walking through the world, soaking up the ghosts wherever I may go.

Monday, April 27, 2009

I'm not always keen on the idea that children's poetry has to be silly, because it doesn't -- it underestimates a child's ability to appreciate imagery and language. However, silliness isn't always a bad thing, and I did enjoy this one. Visit his Web site and see what else he has to offer!

DO NOT CATAPULT THE CARROTS!DO NOT JUGGLE GOBS OF FAT!DO NOT DROP THE MASHED POTATOESON THE GERBIL OR THE CAT!NEVER PUNCH THE PUMPKIN PUDDING!NEVER TUNNEL THROUGH THE BREAD!PUT NO PEAS INTO YOUR POCKET!PLACE NO NOODLES ON YOUR HEAD!DO NOT SQUEEZE THE STEAMED ZUCCHINI!DO NOT MAKE THE MELON OOZE!NEVER STUFF VANILLA YOGURTIN YOUR LITTLE SISTER’S SHOES!DRAW NO FACES IN THE KETCHUP!MAKE NO LITTLE GRAVY POOLS!

Sunday, April 26, 2009

When we're together, the spaces betweenThreaten to enclose our bodiesAnd isolate our spirits.The mirror reflects what we are not,And we wonder if our mateSuspects a fatal misreadingOf our original text,Not to mention the dreaded subtext.Reality, we fear, mocks appearance.Or is trapped in a hall of mirrorsWhere infinite regress preventsA grateful egress. That is,We can never know the meaningOf being two-in-one,Or if we are one-in-two.What-I-Am is grieved at What-I'm-Not.What-We-Should-Be is numbed by What-We-Are.

Yes, I'm playing word gamesWith the idea of marriage,Musing over how even we canSecularize Holy wedlock.Or to figure it another way,To wonder why two televisionsIn the same house seem natural symbolsOf the family in decline.

Yet you are present to me now.I sense you keenly, at work,Bending red in face to reachA last defiant spot of yellowOn those horrific kitchen cabinets.Your honey hair flecked with paint;Your large soft hidden breastsPushing down against your shirt.The hemispheres of those buttocksCurving into uncompromising hips.To embrace you would be to take holdOf my life in all its substance.

Without romance, I say that ifI were to deconstruct myselfAnd fling the pieces at random,They would compose themselvesInto your shape.But I guess that is romantic,The old mystification-Cramming two bodiesInto a single space.

Amen!

Our separation has taught meThat, dwelling in mind,The corporealityOf mates has spiritual massWhich may be formulated:Memory times desire over distanceYields a bodying forth.Thus I project into theDeadly space between usA corposant,Pulsating a languageThat will cleave to youIn the coolness of sleepWith insubstantialitySo fierce as to leave its dampnessOn the morning sheets,Or so gentleAs to fan your browWhile you paint the kitchen.A body like a breath,Whispering the axiomBy which all religions are blessed:

Friday, April 24, 2009

Unwind the plastic belt and hear the silly crinkle as you unsheathethe hard red boxTurn it over and tap tap tap it on the bottomSpread open the lidTake a deep breath, inhale the strong sweet and musky scentPull off that last little cover and admire the perfect little rows,waiting for fireRun your finger along their firm but soft endsSlowly work one away from the restRelease it, roll it between your fingers and admire the smooth roundnessBring it to you nose and inhale, closer this time, deeper this timeAnticipationLick your lips, cradle the cylinder gently between themTease the spongy circle with your tongueGive it a little nibbleLight the fuse and burn burn burn

Thursday, April 23, 2009

In honor of the Bard's 445th birthday and in celebration of Talk Like Shakespeare Day, I share with you a sonnet by Will himself. (And here's what some of them looked like back in the day.) (And click here for some general information on the poet.) Enjoy!

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O no! it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come:Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I figured I'd Google a couple of words and see what I got. I've never read any of this woman's poetry but I liked this one. There's a link to other poems she has published, if you wish to discover a new voice.

*language warning*There's a word in this poem you might not want to read aloud to those you're trying to teach to not use, er, certain words.

they were red shoes no angelswanna wear, not on a bet, noton a dare, not even to save a soul

they werefuglytotally bugfuck butt-uglycreaky clunky stuck to my feeteight hours a day five days a weekunder the approving nods ofI swear

seventy three nuns who held thekeys to mynot quite heaven butdamned close future self

and i was such a good girlthe smart one, just a littlechubby with such a prettyface, just a little frizz to curlsthat defied braids and rubber bandsthat flat out refused to lie flat anddo the long and silky thing, thatscreamed Shirley Temple in aMarcia Brady world. i was

the one who sat in the corner withtwo desks between my test paperand everyone else's eyes, alreadysingled out as the one whoalways knew the answernever did the crime

and i was six and all i wanted was for onceto break a rule without surprising everyone

Monday, April 20, 2009

I studied English with Dr. Ora Williams, a great professor whose voice was a treat to hear. She was the aunt of Ntozake Shange, and she once reflected aloud why a woman who was raised to speak perfect English chose to write in dialect.

I wonder that, too — but I also enjoy her poetry.

My Father Is a Retired Magician

(for ifa, p.t., & bisa)

my father is a retired magicianwhich accounts for my irregular behavioreverythin comes outta magic hatsor bottles wit no bottoms & parakeetsare as easy to get as a couple a rabbitsor 3 fifty cent pieces/ 1958

my daddy retired from magic & tookup another trade cuz this friend of minefrom the 3rd grade asked to be made whiteon the spot

what cd any self-respectin colored american magiciando wit such a outlandish request/ ceptput all them razzamatazz hocus pocus zippity-do-dahthingamajigs away cuzcolored chirren believin in magicwaz becomin politically dangerous for the race& waznt nobody gonna be made whiteon the spot justfrom a clap of my daddy's hands

& the reason i'm so peculiar'scuz i been studyin up on my daddy's technique& everythin i do is magic these days& it's very coloredvery now you see it/ now youdont mess wit me i come from a family of retiredsorcerers/ active houngans & pennyante fortune tellerswit 41 million spirits critturs & celestial bodieson our side i'll listen to yr problems help wit yr career yr lover yr wanderin spouse make yr grandma's stay in heaven more gratifyin ease yr mother thru menopause & show yr son how to clean his room

all things are possiblebut aint no colored magician in her right mindgonna make you white i mean this is blk magicyou lookin at & i'm fixin you up good/ fixin you up good n colored& you gonna be colored all yr life& you gonna love it/ bein colored/ all yr life/ colored & love itlove it/ bein colored/

by Ntozake ShangeSpell #7 from Upnorth-Outwest Geechee Jibara Quik Magic Trance Manual for Technologically Stressed Third World People

Sunday, April 19, 2009

This is my first memory:A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky wood floorA line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the centerHeavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and readSo my first book was always big

In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presidedTo the left side the card catalogueOn the right newspapers draped over what looked like a quilt rackMagazines face out from the wall

Thursday, April 16, 2009

I married youfor all the wrong reasons,charmed by yourdangerous family history,by the innocent muscles, bulginglike hidden weaponsunder your shirt,by your naive ties, the colorsof painted scraps of sunset.

I was charmed tooby your assumptionsabout me: my serenity —that mirror waiting to be cracked,my flashy acrobatics with knivesin the kitchen.How wrong we both wereabout each other,and how happy we have been.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

It's a rather manic view of life, love and marriage — with more than a few laughs. Do you have a favorite wedding poem? (I have a favorite engagement "poem"!)

Marriage

Should I get married? Should I be good?Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?Don't take her to movies but to cemeteriestell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinetsthen desire her and kiss her and all the preliminariesand she going just so far and I understanding whynot getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstoneand woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky -

When she introduces me to her parentsback straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofaand not ask Where's the bathroom?How else to feel other than I am,often thinking Flash Gordon soap -O how terrible it must be for a young manseated before a family and the family thinkingWe never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?Say All right get married, we're losing a daughterbut we're gaining a son -And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friendsand only a handful of mine all scroungy and beardedjust wait to get at the drinks and food -And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbatedasking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the backShe's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on -Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoesNiagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!All streaming into cozy hotelsAll going to do the same thing tonightThe indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happenThe lobby zombies they knowing whatThe whistling elevator man he knowingEverybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!running rampant into those almost climactic suitesyelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the FallsI'd sit there the Mad Honeymoonerdevising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamya saint of divorce -

But I should get married I should be goodHow nice it'd be to come home to herand sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchenaproned young and lovely wanting my babyand so happy about me she burns the roast beefand comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chairsaying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at nightand cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian booksLike hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmowerlike pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fencelike when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chestgrab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell himWhen are you going to stop people killing whales!And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottlePenguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust -

Yet if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snowand she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling manknowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-O what would that be like!Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber TacitusFor a rattle a bag of broken Bach recordsTack Della Francesca all over its cribSew the Greek alphabet on its bibAnd build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of fatherNot rural not snow no quiet windowbut hot smelly tight New York Cityseven flights up, roaches and rats in the wallsa fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!And five nose running brats in love with BatmanAnd the neighbors all toothless and dry hairedlike those hag masses of the 18th centuryall wanting to come in and watch TVThe landlord wants his rentGrocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbusimpossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking -No! I should not get married! I should never get married!But - imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated womantall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black glovesholding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the otherand we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge windowfrom which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer daysNo, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream -

O but what about love? I forget lovenot that I am incapable of loveIt's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes -I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my motherAnd Ingrid Bergman was always impossibleAnd there's maybe a girl now but she's already marriedAnd I don't like men and -But there's got to be somebody!Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwearand everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possiblethen marriage would be possible -Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian loverso i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it's you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Saturday, April 11, 2009

This struck me with its lovely imagery. Listen to Garrison Keillor read it on The Writer's Almanac. Enjoy!

Crusoe

When you've been away from it long enough,You begin to forget the countryOf couples, with all its strange customsAnd mysterious ways. Those twoOver there, for instance: late thirties,Attractive and well-dressed, readingAt the table, drinking some complicatedCoffee drink. They haven't spokenOr even looked at each other in thirty minutes,

But the big toe of her right foot, nakedIn its sandal, sometimes grazesThe naked ankle bone of his left foot,

The faintest signal, a line thrown

Between two vessels as they cruiseThrough this hour, this vacation, this life,Through the thick novels they're reading,Her toe saying to his ankle,

Here's to the whole improbable storyOf our meeting, of our life togetherAnd the oceanic richnessOf our mingled narrativeWith its complex past, with its hurtsAnd secret jokes, its dark closetsAnd delightful sexual quirks,Its occasional doldrums, its vastFuture we have already peopledWith children. How safe we are

Compared to that man sitting across the room,Marooned with his drinkAnd yellow notebook, trying to writeA way off his little island.

Sittin' by the side of the road in the middle of nowhereI don't know where I'm goin' but I hope I know it when I get there.Thinking about how love never works out,but I guess that's the way it goesAnd how this story ends, only heaven knows.

I always thought there was an angel watchin' over meBut angels sometimes make mistakes, as you will see'cause I've had my share of bad love affairs,in fact, I married three.So here's my little story about Miles, Ralph and Bradley

Miles made me smile 'til he stole my CamaroRalph made me laugh 'til I criedAnd Bradley, oh, I loved him madlybut his tires were bald, and they went flatso did our love and that was that.

Now I'm sittin' in the middle of nowhere by the side of the roadOne of these days I'll find true love,learn how to say 'No.'I know in the past my love didn't lastas I guess this story showsWhere was my angel then? Only heaven knows.

And a bonus: a YouTube video of Quincy Coleman singing the pie song from "Waitress," one of my favorite movies. (Alas, still no soundtrack released!)

Thursday, April 9, 2009

I hope you visit some of the links I provide with these poems. There is some unexpected information from time to time. Like now.

And not just because I said a word that, if said enough times, will make you giggle even if you don't want to.

Grapefruit

My grandfather got up early to section grapefruit.I know because I got up quietly to watch.He was tall. His hairless shins stuck outbelow his bathrobe, down to leather slippers.The house was quiet, sun just up, ticking ofthe grandfather clock tall in the corner.

The grapefruit were always sectioned just so,nestled in clear nubbled bowls usedfor nothing else, with half a maraschinocentered bleeding slowly intosoft pale triangles of fruit.It was special grapefruit, Indian River,not to be had back home.

Doves cooed outside and the last night-breezeRustled the palms against the eaves.He turned to see me, pale light flashingoff his glassesand smiled.

I remember as I work my knife along themembrane separating sections.It's dawn. The doves and palms are far away.I don't use cherries anymore.The clock is digitaland no one is watching.

My grandson gazes at the seder plate from his positionfar down the table, waves his little hands in my direction,And says, on cue and as he had practiced, "Ma zot?"Hebrew for "What is all this?" Next year he might knowthe Four Questions but for now, Ma zot is sufficient,and we set about answering him.True, we took a few liberties with the seder's order,Gabriel opened the door for Elijah before the mealIn case he got cranky and his mother had to put him down.For the record, Elijah didn't come this year,Nor did he drink from the glass near Gabriel's plate.But I swear I felt the prophet's presencein the angelic face of my grandson. Both are harbingersof that better world all of us so desperately need.

I love Passover,since that's when you'll be back.Like every year,we'll take the car to Kiryat Motzkinand, over glasses of wineand bowls of charoset,Zvi will tell usof the March of Death.Then we'll return to Tel Aviv,and as you drive in the dark,the car's windowswill fog up,and I'll put my hand on your knee.At home, we'll get into bedand celebrate our ownprivate Seder.I see myself puttingmy lips to your bellyand thinking of honey,while in the street belowour angel passes.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Valerie, whose birthday is today, inspired me. My brilliant and creative stepdaughter asked about Twitter, and it made me think: how about poetry on Twitter? The medium is ripe for it.

For those of you who haven't been completely overwhelmed by Technology, Twitter is a new service that allows users to send brief messages, called tweets. These tweets are limited to 140 characters, including spaces.

Writer Tom Watson, who has pondered this idea, illustrates that sometimes the poetry isn't intended. Sometimes it just is, like his friend Steve Bowbrick's tweet about driving to see his mother in Ireland:

Driving down to West Cork used to be a quiet pleasure.Now it's a melancholy chore.Still, the sky is absolutely full of stars.

Now, that is poetry.

If you haven't already done so, sign up for Twitter, which is free, and start following me (cfcohen).

Now, get to the fun work: write a short poem, as many lines as you want, but using no more than 140 characters (including spaces and symbols). Drop me a line and let me know, and I'll be sure to start following you — and enjoying your poetry.

Don't be discouraged and think you have nothing to say. I know the Internet is full of people showing us they really don't have anything to say, but this is different. Even the act of putting a frozen pizza in the oven is ripe for poetry. Watching the leaves blow about the parking lot? Poetry! (Well, it can be.)

So, go tweet me! I can't wait to see what you have to share.

And now, if you'll indulge me, this is a tweet for Valerie. Happy birthday, Val!

The child asks, "Is it true?" The story's old,Of a brave youth who all on good intentAlone about the world unwearied wentFor love of human kind, nor sought for gold.His face was beautiful with thought; his holdOf life but frail--as if he had been meantFor gentle ways, and could not have been sentTo battle with a world that bought and sold.A wistful far-off look grew in his eyesAs if they said to all, "Good-night, farewell!"Farewell it was. In groves of paradiseA radiant maiden meets him. "Who art thou?"He asks. "For none so fair on earth did dwell.""I am thy deeds," she says, "that greet thee now!"

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Shel Silverstein, may he rest in peace, seemed like a fun-loving guy. Visit his Web site and see if you agree.

In the meantime, here's one of his poems.

Bear In There

There's a Polar BearIn our Frigidaire--He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.With his seat in the meatAnd his face in the fishAnd his big hairy pawsIn the buttery dish,He's nibbling the noodles,He's munching the rice,He's slurping the soda,He's licking the ice.And he lets out a roarIf you open the door.And it gives me a scareTo know he's in there--That Polary BearIn our Fridgitydaire.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Take this, a poem by Virginia's poet laureate and Mason alumna, Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda. Visit her Web site to hear her read it.

Take This on Authority

When the last cloud leavesnothing behind—nohistory, no trace of error, nobasilica to shelter a man—a hymn, as lonely as any,will rise out of canyonsand at great heightssing to every particle, toevery hint of light along the way.In a temple, in anotheruniverse, listeners willbow down chanting.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Because when you say cup and spoonyour mouth moves the same way as your grandfather'sand his grandfather's before him.It's Newton's first law: A person in motiontends to stay in motion with the same speedand direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force—scarcity or greed.Is there a word for greed in every language?

And when my son asks why his father speaks Danishand he and I speak English and Carlos—at kindergarten—speaks Portuguese:

because Denmark is and has always been.Our ancestors tracked north and Carlos'tracked south. What's left in their wakeis language.

Because it comes downto want, to latitude and longitude as ways to measuredesire, invisible mover of ships—great clockwise gyre of water in the sea—like some amusement park ride where boats seem to sailbut run on tracks under the water.

Because to change course now would be like divertingthe Arno, this centuries-long rut we've dug ourselvesinto, and how would it be to wake up one morningwith bird oiseau or another word entirely?

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Welcome to National Poetry Month! In April, I will share a poem a day with you on this site. The only way this could be better is if April had 39 days!

Don't hesitate to share with me some poems you come across and think are cool. If you hear one or read me or even just think about that one you had to memorize, send it along. I'll share it with the rest of the class!

So, here's our first poem of the month. Enjoy, and check back tomorrow for another one!

The Icelandic Language

In this language, no industrial revolution;no pasteurized milk; no oxygen, no telephone;only sheep, fish, horses, water falling.The middle class can hardly speak it.

In this language, no flush toilet; you stumblethrough dark and rain with a handful of rags.The door groans; the old smell comesup from under the earth to meet you.

But this language believes in ghosts;chairs rock by themselves under the lamp; horsesneigh inside an empty gully, nothingat the bottom but moonlight and black rocks.

The woman with marble hands whispersthis language to you in your sleep; facescome to the window and sing rhymes; old ladieswind long hair, hum, tat, fold jam inside pancakes.

In this language, you can't chit-chatholding a highball in your hand, can'teven be polite. Once the sentence starts its course,all your grief and failure come clear at last.

Old inflections move from case to case,gender to gender, softening consonants, darkeningvowels, till they sound like the sea movingicebergs back and forth in its mouth.